Good afternoon! I'm participating in the promotional tour for Pavarti K. Tyler's Shadow on the Wall hosted by Tribute Books. To follow the tour and see what other blogs are participating,please click here. Below is a description of Shadow on the Wall and an excerpt to give you a flavor of the book.

Description (from Publisher):Recai Osman: Muslim, philosopher,
billionaire and Superhero?
Controversial and daring, Shadow on the Wall details the
transformation of Recai Osman from complicated man to
Superhero. Forced to witness the cruelty of the Morality
Police in his home city of Elih, Turkey, Recai is called upon
by the power of the desert to be the vehicle of change. Does
he have the strength to answer Allah's call or will his dark
past and self doubt stand in his way?
Pulling on his faith in Allah, the friendship of a Jewish
father-figure and a deeply held belief that his people deserve
better, Recai Osman must become The SandStorm. In the tradition of books by Margaret Atwood and Salman
Rushdie, Shadow on the Wall tackles issues of religion,
gender, corruption and the basic human condition. Beautiful
and challenging, this is not a book to miss.

Excerpt from the book: Recai Osman awoke slowly, flickering in and out of
consciousness, the sun scorching his bruised and exhausted body.

Where am I? His foggy mind struggled to remember the last twenty-four
hours.

Gritty particles shifted in sympathy as he rolled to his side.
Sunlight assaulted his closed lids shooting pain through his
head. Sand clung to his long lashes and hair. When the
disorientation passed, Recai wiped his eyes with sand-infested
hands, only adding to what clung to his fingers, pressing the
grains deeper into his dry eyes, abrading them. Recai was
covered in particles so fine they filled his shoes and ground
into his scalp between each follicle of hair. Recai pushed his hands into the warm sand, lifting himself to a
sitting position and looked around. The night before was still a
blur. He remembered the bar at Bozooğulları Hotel and sharing a
drink with a Kurdish woman who reminded him of his mother. Women
who lived in Elih knew better than to be seen in a public bar,
but the hotel staff looked the other way; money could buy many
freedoms. Her eyes had been deep-set and so dark they may have
genuinely been black. Their mischievous glint and the sound of
his mother’s language had drawn him in. A thin veil tight around
her hairline, she’d caught his attention with the modern style
of having it pulled back and away from her shoulders, allowing
him to clearly see the neckline of her dress.
His head spun from last night’s drink and a dull throb built
within his skull. Recai swallowed; his dry tongue thick from
dehydration. Usually a soft bed and a forgiving shower greeted
him upon waking. How had he gotten out here, in the middle of
nowhere, surrounded by nothing but sand? He hoped the dunes he
saw were the ones that resided to the south of the city and not
a feature of some farther, larger wasteland.
He didn’t remember leaving the bar, or traveling anywhere. How
much had he drunk? Surely not more than any other night out, but
his memory was hazy as he attempted to peer into the past. There
were rumors of nomads kidnapping, robbing and abandoning the
bodies of affluent Turks in the desert, but he would remember if
he’d been kidnapped, wouldn’t he? Instead, all he remembered was
drinking bourbon while admiring the curve of the mysterious
woman’s collarbone peeking seductively above her blouse.
The dunes just outside of Elih, Turkey, were not large. The
expanse of emptiness made it easy to become disoriented and lost
in amongst the shifting terrain. If he was lucky, he’d have
awoken at night and followed the light of the city toward home.
But now, with the blazing sun above him, luck was something he
simply didn’t have.
Men didn’t last long in the dunes without water and supplies.
Recai was resourceful; his conscription in the Turkish military
had been short but very educational. If he’d had a canteen and
some salt tablets, he’d be capable of surviving without food or
shelter for a few days. But not like this…
He shook his head, and streams of sand fell to the ground
around him. Negativity wasn’t going to help him get home.
Recai blinked back the encroaching fog in his mind. The sun and
lack of water already affected his focus, and the temperature
was still rising. Recai took off his shoes and socks, knowing
that despite the burning sand this terrain was best traversed
the way his ancestors had. He needed to feel the earth below
him, listen to the sand as it fell away from his steps.
He undid his belt and jacket and made them into a satchel to
carry what few possessions he had. Searching his pockets he
found them empty. He was as penniless as a wandering Roma
seeking his next fortune. Soon he had his designer button-up
shirt tied up on his head like a Jain turban, and his worldly
possessions hanging from his belt over his shoulder. The scruff of his untrimmed beard protected his face from the
sun, and the turban kept him somewhat shaded. Recai took in his
surroundings and the placement of the sun and set off in the
direction he hoped was north.
Recai walked for what seemed like miles, resisting the instinct
to second-guess his direction. The sand moved between his toes
but soon he found his footing, and his body responded to the
landscape as if from some genetic memory. He remembered his
father’s words from a trip he took to the Oman desert as a
child: Never take your shoes off; the sand will eat away at
your feet. Recai had done it anyway, then and now,
feeling more in control with that connection to the ground, its
movements speaking to his flesh directly.
His father had always been full of surprises: one moment the
strict disciplinarian, the next, he would wake Recai in the
middle of the night to see a falling star. Recai had never had
the chance to get to know him as an adult. Instead, he lived
with the enigmatic memory of a great man lost.
Recai stood in the middle of the desert—every direction would
eventually lead to Elih or one of the smaller villages scattered
around the city. But who would take in a stranger? A stranger
with a Hugo Boss turban and a bruised and bloodied face? In’shallah,
he would be delivered to safety.
The sun hung high overhead, beating down so no living thing
dared venture into the desert. If Recai had a tarp or blanket,
or anything at all, he would have dug himself a hole and
conserved his strength until night. Instead, at the crest of the
next dune he sat on his bundle to keep his body away from the
sand, refusing to allow it to siphon the remaining moisture from
his system. He stared out at the expanse of desert before him.
Emptiness had never been so tangible to him, nor solitude so
deafening.
From his vantage point he saw the crescent shape of the
wind-carved dune. Recai’s face was wind-burned, his shoulders
screamed from the assault of the sun’s rays. The city remained
out of range; all human life seemed to lie well beyond the line
of the horizon.
As he stood, the ground shifted softly beneath him. It reminded
Recai of when he’d been a child on his father’s yacht. He used
to love going out on the water, taking the helm when they
reached the open sea. The city of Elih was landlocked. It was
the place where his father had made his fortune and helped
establish a sophisticated Arab beacon for the rest of the Middle
East, a place where Turks and Kurds co-existed peacefully. When
his family needed to escape from the day to day running of the
Osman Corporation, a private jet would fly him and his parents
out to Iskandarūn where they docked the boat.
Reaci walked on with his thoughts. He hadn’t been to Iskandarūn
in years. Not since he’d witnessed his mother jump without
warning from the helm of the yacht. Her thin hijab blew in the
evening breeze before she leapt. It had been blue and Recai
remembered the way it seemed to float in the air when she took
that final step. Not long after that his father disappeared,
leaving paperwork that named Recai the heir to the
multi-billion-dollar empire he ran. Recai had been only eight
years old. Since then, Elih had fallen into the hands of Mayor
Mahmet Yılmaz and his RTK henchmen—terrorists hiding behind the
thin veil of faith. It made Recai sick to his stomach, the way
the city was falling apart, devolving into crime and ignorance,
but there was nothing he could do. He simply was not his father.
Walking along the crest of the dune, hoping to find a way to
the flat area below that didn’t involve sliding down the great
sand wall, Recai felt a rumble in his chest. A vibration
surrounded him, calling to him from the air itself. A deep roar
rose from the earth. The pitch rose as the noise intensified,
now a screaming growl like the Jinn’s song. The dunes were collapsing.
Recai ran, hoping to keep ahead of the avalanche. The awesome
physics of the phenomenon would have been breathtaking were it
not so deadly. Dropping the satchel that held the last remnants
of his modern life, Recai scrambled across the crest, unable to
get ahead of the avalanche. The dune song reached a crescendo
and Recai screamed back at the spectacle of Mother Nature’s
power. He lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees just
as the top of the dune swept out from beneath him, sending him
rolling, swimming in the sea of sand, which enveloped him then
whisked him away.

Ohh, it really does sound beautiful, challenging and captivating. I love books like this, and isn't the cover simply amazing? I'm interested to check this one out if for nothing else, then for my Turkish roots my mother keeps talking about, hah.I'm kidding, it sounds wonderful.

Thank you so mcuh for hosting me on your site! I hope your readers enjoyed the excerpts.

Maja, if you do pick it up, please remember this is one Westerner's imagination not a representation of the REAL Turkey, although I did a lot of research and tried to do justice to the Islamic population. Thanks! Pav

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